There was a period of time where I was constantly traveling for work. One of the spots in my regular route was Atlanta, Georgia. I flew there dozens of times, and built a decent routine including where I stayed, where I ate, and where I worked out. One of the critical factors in maintaining work travel without it destroying my non-professional life was a consistency in my routines.
The hotel I most frequented was just a few blocks from my Atlanta office, so it was an easy walk, weather permitting. I loved this particular hotel, which was introduced to me by a colleague of mine who had regularly used it as a home base, not dozens of times, but over dozens of years. Their lobby offered a happy hour which, if you joined between 5:30pm and 6:30pm, would garner you a small glass of white or red wine, and some particular snack that they put out.
If at all possible, I tried to arrive in the evenings by 6:30pm and enjoy my glass of red. It was often followed by a fabulous Cobb salad for dinner, which was never anything but perfect. I had a few “regular” tables in the space, as well as regular wait staff members, and would routinely set up my laptop to catch up on admin work while I fed my body and began to let the day roll to an end.
In the mornings, I was in the gym before the sunrise. There was a very small facility there, but just big enough that I could always get onto one of the four treadmills that faced the indoor/outdoor pool, and the sunrise. My reward for the workout was a piping hot cup of coffee from the lobby. I don’t know what kind of coffee they were serving but it was always just right.
Repeatedly going through the same routines while on the road, made it bearable. My travels were anchored, no matter what city I was in, by healthy (mostly!) eating, exercise, rest and also great wine and coffee. Even though I was in different geographic states, I could manage the cadence of my day pretty consistently no matter where I woke up.
Three years ago in 2019 I was in Atlanta on Ash Wednesday. As I sat at the office and looked at the time, I realized I’d have to choose between my wine and salad, or going to Church for Ashes. I began searching for Churches on-line to find something walkable (I walked everywhere when I traveled for work.) I came across a Church that was just a few miles away, and if I left quickly, I could make their Ash Wednesday service.
I left the office and walked with a rapid pace toward the Church. Without question I was not in the best part of town, although I was used to the vibe there and most of the time felt pretty safe. I was nearing the Church with just enough time to get seated before Mass began. I sat on the very inside of a pew on the right, towards the middle of this massive edifice. I was alone.
The traditions of Lent are among some of my favorite. The concepts of death and resurrection, the ending and the beginning, the letting go and the opening to new life when Easter arrives, are all very comforting life rhythms for me. Even as a young teenager, and through my college years, I always got to Church for Ash Wednesday services. I would spend them pondering life, and death, and decide to “give up something” for the nearly seven week time frame of the season.
On this Ash Wednesday in Atlanta, I sat in my seat which was so small relative to the size and scale of this Church. I am always humbled to sit in a place of worship and enjoy taking in the décor, stained glass, beautiful music and sometimes strong incense. But on this day, I didn’t feel a deep warmth or like I was part of a bigger group of attendees. I felt the cold stone images that surrounded the inside of the Church, the hard, wooden pew that sat under me, and cold I was still shaking off from the walk. I realized it had really been a while since I’d been inside a Church.
When it came time for Communion, I began the slow walk up to the Altar. The closer I got the less air I could access and the shorter my breaths became. Before I could get there I realized there were tears welling in my eyes, and pains in my stomach which felt like stabbing nerves.
As I received the Sacraments, tears rolled down my face, with no way to stop them. I kept my head down as I returned to my seat and fumbled for some tissues which I found. The tissues themselves were a Blessing, since the type of weeping that ensued post Communion would produce far more tears than I could absorb with my blazer sleeve, or just by wiping away which were adaptation tactics that I had nearly perfected.
The remainder of that Ash Wednesday service is a blur. What I remember is the unstoppable, steady flow of tears. My experience of being reunited with my traditions (and my Creator) felt something like seeing my mom walk toward me after returning from three weeks of sleep away summer camp. I was home. No matter how long it had been. It was a flood of strong emotion.
The visceral presence of agony, thinking about my children that were no longer here on the Earth, and how to combat my tears were enough to distract me while also, keeping me in the moment. The service ended, and as I got to the back of the Church to exit, I realized it had gotten completely dark and I started feeling unsafe to walk, even though I could have really used the fresh air.
As I stood in the foyer fumbling with my Uber app, an older woman approached me and said hello. We made some small talk and upon realizing I was from out of town, the stranger offered me a ride to my hotel just a few miles away. Yes, I know, “Stranger Danger” and all that good stuff, should have been enough for me to decline the offer. But at that moment in time, would a stranger Uber driver really have been that much safer than an older woman who just went to church?
I agreed to the ride. Funny, unlike the clothing she was wearing, her car was a luxurious vehicle which I probably would have slept well in had we gone for a long drive. But my hotel was just a few miles away. We had enough time to connect, and then say goodbye.
I don’t recall the name of that generous, caring soul that drove me safely to my hotel (too late for Happy Hour I might add) but I do recall the relief that washed over me when I got to my room. I hadn’t put too much effort into planning the logistics around attending that service. I just honored the tug on my heart strings to get there, and low and behold had everything I needed, in spite of poor planning.
Today, on this Ash Wednesday, if you are so inspired, create some time to reflect on what needs letting go and what new life is trying to emerge through you. Sure, this day is based on religious traditions, but relinquishing things that harm us in search of new things that nurture us does not have to be about religion. It can just mean that we are present, open, and curious about what new life will arise out of the seeds we choose to plant, and honor over the next seven weeks.
Whether or not we “practice” a particular tradition today, or over the Lenten season, I believe we are all invited to take inventory, process information, and make adjustments as we see fit, to improve our lives and the lives of those around us. Setting an intention may not necessarily bring it to pass, but we have a better chance to hear, feel, and know everything if we can just sit still long enough to listen. It doesn’t matter if we are in a Church or in our beds. What matters is that we are present. What matters is that we are curious. What matters is that if we are trying to get to Church, we don’t mind walking. And if we need a safe ride, it will show up, as it did for me.